


hoes never get cold

by henryclerval



Series: birthday shite 4 the GF [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5818336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as scientific observations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hoes never get cold

It started as scientific observations. 

He wanted to see just how many shades of green lined Thane’s scales. He wanted to see if there were patterns in the dull ones, if they constituted freckles or moles as he’s seen in other species. He wanted to see if he grew pale on his underbelly, if the pads of his fingers were rough, if the double lids were really necessary. Evolution doesn’t always think procedurally—he wanted to know if there were remnants behind of how Thane, wasting away in some dark corner of the ship, was able to make it to today. 

He’d never seen a drell before, he told himself—and that was true, partly. He’d never really met one up close. Couldn’t ask it questions, couldn’t record mental notes during the slightest passing by in the hallways. Thane provided an unprecedented opportunity. Thane was a chance to study, a small relief from the mounting pressure on his shoulders. 

Not that he didn’t like being the cusp of it all. 

It was just nice to have a distraction when experiments were running, just out of his fingertips. 

Thane let him, for the most part. He let him take measurements, let him ask questions, let him murmur and babble and mumble his way through shoe sizes, through dietary needs, through a tattered medical history. No records. No memories. Mordin found that doubtful, that this species that lived nearly every day in the protective den of memories, could not remember one single thing about his mother or father. 

He had enough tact not to pry. 

Eventually he had more time for their sessions, and what more was Thane doing than staring at walls? They met with more frequency, no longer confined to the messy laboratory. They met for thirty-seconds in the elevator; they met for two minutes in the mess hall; they met for five and a quarter minutes outside of the cockpit, Mordin just momentarily blindsided when Thane appeared from nowhere and urged him that no, trying to bait EDI into giving him all monitoring data would not work. 

They met for twenty-six minutes and thirty-two seconds, barely outside of where most of the crew bunked. Thane stood closer than normal—was somehow more expressive with his hands as he spoke. He spoke! Spoke more than a handful of words between the pauses of Mordin’s run-ons. He spoke leisurely, languidly, the garble in his throat ringing around in Mordin’s ears for several long minutes after the conversation had ended. Thane had slouched, slightly, his weight shifting from foot to foot—ease, comfort, his guard just a fraction worn away. 

Not that Mordin was paying that close attention. 

Not that Mordin carefully recorded every detail of the conversation later, privately, in the soft whir of artificial nighttime aboard the Normandy.


End file.
